Oh, Yes
by kattykitty
Summary: "There was something about Sherlock playing the violin that had a profound, irrevocable effect on John Watson." - Written as a one shot sorta thing but open to development (and no doubt a raised Rating) if received well!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Just a little ficlet to possibly develop if received well. ^_^ Enjoy!**

**Oh, Yes**

There was something about Sherlock playing the violin that had a profound, irrevocable effect on John Watson.

It could have been for any number of reasons. He probably wasn't the only one who noticed the subtle changes in the consulting detective's body language or the palpable tension which filled the room from the very first time that bow met instrument, the premier note looping its way across the space between bodies and swirling through the endless dust motes until it reached the delicate whorl of an ear, the very vibrations of the sound coursing their way through heated veins and down to the epicentre of a place within John's self that he could not quite put a name to. He was sure he couldn't be alone in seeing the lucid, languid movement of Sherlock's arms as he dragged the horsehair across synthetic strings, the muscles in his hands rising and falling with their constant dynamism - even in the limited view from his armchair John was almost achingly aware of the grace in which his friend teased the violin, his eyes tracing the fluidity in Sherlock's sway and the flutter of precise, demanding fingers against the solid neck of the instrument almost as if it were an absolute necessity not to miss a single moment of the genius and his ingenuity.

There were days when a single bar of notes from Sherlock's talented fingers could render John frozen in his day-to-day ministrations, his entire body tensing and locking him into place as the music flowed over him and made his limbs momentarily and frustratingly useless; too many times he had found himself letting his tea go cold or his patient notes go unattended for minutes, hours in a day which was far too short. Most of the time the music was original, crafted with a blunt pencil against wrinkled manuscript paper as Sherlock stood framed in the sunlight streaming through their infinitely clouded windows, leaning down and making his perfect, explicit markings and clearly living entirely in the moment as his instincts murmured to him of which notes worked and which were too discordant. Sometimes Sherlock would even turn to John as the doctor sat still and silent on his armchair, eyes slightly out of focus and voice low as he asked, terribly and unfailingly intimate, _"does this work?" - _to which John would always reply, terribly and unfailingly sincere, _"oh, yes."_

In recent days, the gift of Sherlock's music had become almost unbearably vivid.

So John did not think it was wrong of himself when he finally broke past the frozen stillness of his body's weakness to the cacophony of sound which assaulted him to much, too often. He did not think it was rude, or inappropriate, or of any particular shock to either of them when it all became too much and something simply had to be done. Truly he did not think too much of anything when he found himself rising from his armchair with the vibrations flooding his mind and body and soul, eyes fixed on the hand which floated and danced, flickering only to rest on the sharp jaw of his flatmate and the refined dip and flow of his cheekbones. His body was a gentle hum of numbness and light, his legs steadily carrying him across the carpet to ultimately stand beside the connoisseur of of his deep, steadily unravelling emotions and simply stare, intent and unbound, at the man who had created this very masterpiece in order to call him from his sitting place and demand his presence at his side.

Sherlock did not stop playing. His eyes glanced fleetingly, all too briefly to meet John's gaze before returning to their hazy stare out of the misted window.

_"Tell me."_

John had no consideration for what he was doing; too many thoughts and he would stall and break. His hand ghosted up through the dust, sending them flying in the opposite direction to Sherlock's music, stopping moments short of touching the hand which reaped such fervent awe and disbelief; the ice-blue eyes found his once again, narrowing slightly until they were a flawed mess of expanding black and periwinkle fire.

_"John."_

John's trembling fingertips found their mark, brushing so lightly and with such suppressed ferocity against the warm, pale skin that the contradiction rocked a shudder through the smaller man's body.

_"Tell me."_

Those same fingertips crept, twisting their way deftly through the notes still winding themselves unforgivably around John's shaking form, unstoppable; slowly they caressed their way up the arm dusted with dark hairs, each one raising traitorously in his wake and revealing to him the truth of this moment, creeping and dragging until they hesitantly, determinedly came to frame the long and flawless face of the man he had for so long called his friend, his best man, his now undeniable raison d'etre.

A shudder of breath from them both.

Sherlock let the bow-wielding arm fall to his side as they stood in complete silence. Their eyes met once more, violence and anguish and undisclosed fervour crashing in discordant harmonies as the heat between them inched up by degrees and bound them together in a battle they were always destined to lose.

It came as a rumble in the back of a tight throat, a noise more beautiful than any music.

_"Does it work?"_

John's other hand wrapped like a vice around the smooth material of the consulting detective's shirt, dragging the man down to meet his reply as it fell from his impatient lips:

_"Oh, yes."_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**** A little addition; there will be more! Please do R&R, it keeps the creative fire flowing!**

He tasted of tea, of dust and of arrogance; if John had ever been told that this would be the taste of unfulfilled, unexpected and undoubtedly dangerous desire he would have laughed, mocked, responded with disbelief and sarcasm but here and now, with his lips pressed to the unresponsive fullness of Sherlock's perfectly bowed mouth he was finally and devastatingly aware of how wrong he had been all of this time. The mouths of the women before, where words would fall as light and gentle as a summer breeze and pepper his ear with sentences of lovely, nonsensical proclamations, in comparison they now seemed overly sweet, their lips too soft and their velvet-smooth skin too pliable – those memories were like smoke now, intangible and immovable. The stark form of reality that he was now impressing his kiss upon was awakening him in more ways than one, and taste – a sense that before now had seemed so temporary and unimpressive – was suddenly of the utmost importance.

Sherlock tasted of tentative possibility.

Heart hammering and breath hitching, John pulled his lips from Sherlock's with the tiniest sound of release, so quiet was the room around them since the music had ceased that he could hear the moment their lips were separated; like the brushing of pages against one another, or water on sand. So whimsical, so ridiculous. The pictures these sensations were creating were utterly unfamiliar; never before had he found himself with a delicate phrase curling the edge of his tongue against the moist roof of his mouth but at that moment he felt as if he had been replaced by poetry, lyrics to the notes that Sherlock had so perfectly wound around each separate letter and impossibly, painfully out of character. He was caught, utterly trapped, his breathing broken and fractured with each word he could not say and body frozen between the heat of the solid form just millimetres from his and the cool, frail air floating through the open window. He paused in his incessant wonderings and found himself poised on the edge of a seemingly impossible possibility, awaiting the moment where the man he had just recklessly kissed would either invite him to lead the dance once more or decline his invitation with a quick word, a blunt blow.

A hesitant tongue darted out to taste the impression that John's lips had left on his, Sherlock's eyes locked unwaveringly on the circle of raw skin that had brushed so daringly against his own.

"_That was… not… my intention."_

The fingertips that still rested upon Sherlock's cheek, static until this point, pressed themselves into the taut skin with every intention of leaving a mark; his mark, John's mark. _"A consequence, then."_

Blazing eyes flickered perilously to meet his own, unspeakable emotion just seconds away from revelation in a space that had once seemed so safe but now threatened to lead them both into unknown territory. _"A consequence of what?"_

John was not oblivious to the sheer heat of the man's gaze, nor was he impervious to it. His lungs constricted, a breath drawn from him alongside a word he had not considered relevant when considering the man standing before him.

"_Ignorance."_

Narrowing eyes pierced him._ "Mine?"_

John's mottled blue eyes flickered down, momentarily unable to pull his gaze from those lips which just minutes before had sent him into a juncture of intense mania. How had he never seen before just how perfect they were? The notion was ridiculous, perfection didn't exist, not in John's world, whenever it had been promised in the past it had always been a lie... yet these lips spoke of no lies. He had tasted them. He knew exactly what they were.

Reason fought irrepressible Desire.

_You must respond,_ Reason urged.

_You must surrender,_ Desire begged.

John swallowed thickly, forcing his stare back up to meet the glacial eyes still piercing him like an x-ray. His breathing was ragged. He was cracking. The words, when they came, were wrong.

"_Yes. I think I might be."_


End file.
